Playing With Your Hair
by quiffed
Summary: I s'pose only I could be given a request for angst and end up with goats and hairdressing. But anyway. Slightly controlling relationship, SiriusRemus.


**Playing With Your Hair**

As he makes his slow, reflective way up the winding staircase, Remus can hear the occupants of the Gryffindor dormitory having an argument. Not just an everyday squabble about _who_ put frogspawn in _whose_ boxers. It's much more intense, and much, much scarier, all squeamishness about _frogs' eggs_ aside. There's the loud, heated shouting of a teenage boy who's had about as much as he can take, then the patronising, superior voice of another teenage boy who a few seconds earlier was yelling his head off and now is trying to appear the reasonable party, and then ominous clunk of something – a heavy book, most probably – being thrown across the room. Remus winces, hoping it's not his first-edition _Dark Creatures _by Trevor Popplewell. The yelling seems to reach fever pitch as he nears the room, and he pauses on the last curve, wondering which is wiser – to go into the bedroom and try to break up the argument, or retreat to the safety of the common room, where digestive biscuits and lovely, sane people await him. It's not much of a choice, really. Before he can decide to turn and flee, however, James barrels through the door, clutching his Quidditch robes in one hand, his chest bare, his glasses askew, and his expression murderous. He stops when he sees Remus.

"Sirius," they both say simultaneously. James says the name in barely-concealed exasperation, Remus sounds resigned to his fate.

"_You_ try and reason with him," James breathes heavily, running a hand through his already messy hair in weariness. "I am so fucking sick of dealing with his moods…"

Remus makes the wearied 'Why me _again_?' Face at James, who throws his hands up in despair and hurtles down the stairs at breakneck speed, off to wear out his aggression on the Quidditch pitch. As he watches him go, Remus wishes that Sirius had a hobby, one that he could take his anger out on – but as Sirius doesn't seem to have any other favourite pastimes other than necking Hufflepuff girls, this isn't an option likely to make_ anyone_ more emotionally stable. Remus pushes the heavy wooden door of the dormitory open apprehensively, and blinks. He doesn't see the pacing, restless boy he expects to see. Sirius is huddled in a ball on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest. His stormy grey eyes are brimming with tears of rage, although he'd rather be castrated by Snape than allow them to spill. As soon as he notices his audience, Sirius tries to draw the curtains violently, yanking at the fabric so hard that it rips and falls to the floor in a crimson heap. Sirius stares at the fallen drapery in concentrated fury. Remus stands in the doorway, and squeaks, for some reason. Probably because he's too terrified to talk. Sirius looks up angrily into Remus's wide hazel eyes and his gaze softens.

"Moony," he mumbles, sounding half-ashamed, like a naughty kid who's just been caught throwing a temper tantrum. Remus goes over to the bed and awkwardly puts his arm around his friend. Sirius's body feels coiled, wound up tightly like a spring.

"Are you ok?"

"Of course I'm not fucking okay!" Sirius explodes, pulling away and shaking his head so vehemently that the silky-black hair falls in his eyes. Remus tenses, and Sirius forces himself to take a deep, calming breath.

"Look – just c'mere," he says wearily, extending his arms to Remus, who recoils. _Sirius can't just talk to him like that all the time and expect him to…_

"No, Pads."

Sirius's eyes gleam dangerously. He cocks an eyebrow slightly. It's not much, but it's enough to remind Remus that his friend's anger isn't limited to petulant foot-stamping and childish yells. When truly pissed off, Sirius can be vindictive, vicious, calculating and _cold_. It's the coldness that's the worst, the detached, unfeeling manner that's so unlike Sirius…

"Come here," Sirius repeats, his voice icy, and this time Remus obeys instantly. Sirius wraps his arms around his chest possessively, and the two boys lean back against the pillows in silence. Remus's heart is crashing away at his ribs in a most disturbing fashion, but Sirius, his right leg curled around Remus's thigh, seems utterly relaxed. It's ironic really, whenever Remus is sent in to 'calm Pads down' he feels like he's about to have an anxiety attack.

"D'you think Prongs is mad at me, Moony?" Sirius asks eventually, pressing his lips to a spot just behind Remus's ear and getting a mouthful of light brown hair for his trouble. Remus feels a surge of unbridled joy at Sirius touching him, and then a sick uneasiness in his stomach because he knows exactly how wrong it is.

"You two always make up again," Remus replies, by way of an answer. He can feel the warmth of Sirius's body radiating through his thin shirt and tries to draw comfort from it. He suspects Sirius is doing much the same thing. "You hardly ever argue."

"Mmm," Sirius murmurs softly, his fingers tracing the line of skin just above the waistband of Remus's faded brown cords. "Been meaning to ask - who _was_ that – who were you talking to Thursday?"

"What? Who?" Remus chokes out, slightly distracted by the sensation of Sirius's uneven fingernails grazing his hip.

"The pretentious wanker with the blazer and the Charms textbook."

"That's Eric Nichols. He's in Ravenclaw. He was just helping me with my Charms coursework."

Sirius stiffens momentarily, and then laughs, a rich, deep, throaty laugh which sounds all the more unsettling because nothing is remotely amusing.

"You're such a _liar_."

Remus doesn't bother to say anything to dispute this statement. There's no point in applying logic or reason to a conversation, not when Sirius insists on being this way.

"Why didn't you come to me or Prongs if you needed help, then? Why'd you go to Eric sodding Nichols?"

"You were both busy with stuff – and Eric sits next to me, and he's really good at Charms-"

"_Ewic sits next to me, Ewic's weally good at Chawms_," Sirius mimics in a horrible, high-pitched baby voice. Remus cringes in embarrassment. "What do you see in that tosser, anyway? Great shag, is he? Must be, with a mug like that…"

Remus tries to scramble away and get off the bed, but Sirius's strong arms pull him back roughly, restraining him. After a couple of seconds' silent struggle, Sirius gently kisses the nape of Remus's neck. Remus feels like bursting into noisy tears, but of course that would be even more humiliating.

"You're not really very responsive today," the dark-haired boy muses thoughtfully. "Don't you like me anymore?"

"Of course I like you," Remus replies slowly, turning on his side to face Sirius. "But not when you're being like this."

"Being like what?" Sirius smiles wryly. He picks up the apple-whiteness of Remus's hand and entwines their fingers together, his tanned knuckles contrasting with Remus's pale, pale skin. "Like what, exactly?" _Like an arse_, Remus says inwardly.

"Like a…"

"Go on then, tell me." Sirius's grey eyes bore into Remus's head desperately, almost pleading at him. Remus knows Sirius wants him to confirm that he's being a selfish, melodramatic bastard, wants someone to tell him exactly how stupid he's being, but Remus could never be that cruel. And even if he could, he wouldn't be able to articulate it properly.

"What happened with Prongs earlier?" Remus inquires, dodging the question. Sirius fiddles with Remus's shirt buttons carelessly and doesn't answer for so long that Remus begins to think he's being ignored.

"Something… I said about… his mum."

"You insulted Mrs. Potter?" Remus sits up, incredulous, disentangling himself hurriedly. Sirius scowls, burying his head under the pillow. His reply is muffled.

"Never… bloody… mind."

"But she's lovely, how could you…" Remus trails off and peers at the back Sirius's head in worry. "This isn't about _your_ mum, is it?"

"No! Moony, shut the fuck up."

There is a silence. Sirius's face is smushed up into the duvet, but his shoulders are shaking. Filled with some peculiar emotion, Remus slides the pillow onto the floor and begins to smooth Sirius's dark hair away from his face.

"Moony?"

"Pads?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Playing with your hair."

"Oh… it –er- feels nice."

"I won't stop, then."

"Don't stop."

"I won't."

The dormitory is blessedly quiet for a few minutes, during which Remus continues to rhythmically stroke Sirius's silky black hair with his fingers. Sirius's shoulders stop shaking, and his breathing becomes even. Remus stares out the window gratefully. The storm has passed, for the time being. Every time Sirius blows up like this, another speck of blackness finds its way into his soul, to add to the chaos of swirling darkness that manifests itself every month. He knows what it's like to lose control completely. James is nearly always on top of things, except with Lily, where he hasn't got a clue but pulls off the reckless bravado nevertheless. Peter's demeanour literally never changes. Perhaps that's why he's the only one who can soothe Sirius's volatile temper. He knows what it's like.

"Hey, Moony?" Sirius looks up at Remus, biting his lip in anxiety. Remus keeps hold of a tuft of dark hair, feeling the softness slip through his fingers.

"What is it?"

"I think I may have thrown your _Dark Creatures _at James's head… the pages got a bit crumpled. Might've ripped it, actually."

"Oh."

"I'll buy you another one, I promise. Next Hogsmeade-"

"You can't, Pads. First edition." From Sirius there was no noise at all for a couple of moments, and then, humbly;

"I'm sorry."

"I don't mind."

"You do, of course you do. You love books. You'd marry your book of Elizabethan poetry if we left you alone with it for long enough."

"I do mind. But it doesn't matter."

"I'm really sorry."

"You said that before."

"But I really mean it," Sirius insists. "You know that, right?"

"How on earth am I supposed to play with your hair if you keep squirming about?" Remus asks in an exaggerated motherly tone. "Look, I'll plait it, if you like. You'll look darling."

"Poofy lunatic," Sirius mutters, but he's smiling. He cocks his head to one side, considering something. "I want to look like Heidi and scare Wormtail. Can you make me look like Heidi?"

"Sure," Remus lies reassuringly, piling Sirius's hair into a scruffy heap and making half-hearted twists in it with his thumbs. "I'll even throw in the goats for free."

"I thought she was a milkmaid, not a goatherd," Sirius points out, after a beat.

"She lived in the stable _with_ the goats," Remus assures his friend, knotting Sirius's dark locks with a blatant disregard for the hairbrushes that would inevitably be destroyed trying to get rid of Sirius's new hairdo. "In a little cot. And her drunk grandfather bet all their money on races – goat races - and ruined them both."

Sirius's face is contorting horribly, as if he's just been informed that Snape has personally prepared each dish he's eaten in the past week. He grimaces at Remus, trying to spit out something difficult to say.

"Here - you don't have to be nice to me just because I'm being a wanker or something. Remus. You really don't." Sirius breathes deeply and stares fixedly at the duvet after saying this. He waits.

Remus refuses to acknowledge that they've stopped playing the game and blinks in apparent confusion.

"Don't be silly," he admonishes briskly. Remus waggles his fingers in a theatrical manner. "I _love_ playing with your hair."


End file.
